Just Let Me
by freckleon
Summary: When Fisk says 'Just let me', Michael has to face the consequences of not being able to refuse.
1. Chapter 1

**Just Let Me**

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**Disclaimer:** The characters and settings in this story do not belong to me, but to the amazing Hilari Bell.

**Summary:**When Fisk says, 'Just let me', Michael has to face the consequences of not being able to refuse.

OR

Here there be randomly named locations, several instances of drunkenness, whorehouses, convenient overlooking of several generally key plot points, Fisk being stupidly in love, and Michael just being stupid. Enjoy.

OR

Fisk gives Michael one drunken blow job and Michael is a dick after. Then they make up.

**Word Count:** Hot damn! This baby clocks in at 9,994 words.

**WARNING:** There is nothing explicit in this, but there are definitely implications (sort of fade-to-black scenes if you will), some language, and a hella lot of drunkenness. Rating is cautious. Also, slash, if that hasn't already been made clear.

If you prefer your Knight and Rogue fluffy and happy at all times, without considering that they might be doing any of the things mentioned above, this story's probably not for you. Liberties have been taken with the universe, such as the views on homosexuality and the traditions of upper-class families. Seriously, I don't want to ruin anyone's views of the lovely series. I just couldn't help myself.

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The festival was incredible. Bright lights and laughing people filled the streets. Good food and ale was available every ten feet, the music was fantastic, and the whole night was completed with a smashing performance by a particularly talented troupe of actors. By the end, Michael was happy, sated, and looking forward to his moderately comfy bed.

Fisk was drunk.

Michael couldn't fault him, since 'twas the boy's twentieth birthday. Michael even kept his own alcohol intake to a minimum so that he might better aid Fisk with difficult tasks, such as standing and walking. Currently his squire was giggling madly while sprawled in the grass after tripping over what Michael could only assume were his own feet.

'This is the best party ever. You, my good, good man, are brilliant,' Fisk slurred.

Michael had heard about the festival several months earlier through a traveling salesman. The man claimed 'twas the highlight of the year in Brambian and brought in folks from neighboring lands miles away because of the fine entertainment (not to mention the unlimited food). 'Twas sheer chance that it landed on Fisk's birthday which Michael took as a sign and began to plan.

Knowing his ability to lie left much to be desired, Michael worried that he wouldn't be able to pull off the scheme without alerting his squire to his intentions, but luck was on his side again. Fisk came down with a bad case of poison oak and refused to pay the ridiculous price for a magica remedy. He spent two weeks covered in rashes and nearly drove Michael to insanity with his complaining, but 'twas a sufficient distraction to keep him from noticing the knight's sneaky actions.

As subtly as possible, Michael suggested they travel to Brambian to find work because he had heard of some job openings that might consider placing an unredeemed man. 'Twas not too hard to convince Fisk, who had been complaining of their position as stable hands to a young lord in Fayetville. The man was as spoiled as they came and demanded impossible standards when it came to cleaning the stalls. Mentioning the large library Brambian boasted probably didn't hurt either.

After that the only problem was actually securing the jobs and lodging once they reached the city. Fisk managed to procure a job as an assistant banker only two days after arriving, which Fisk found ironic and Michael thought was hilarious. The position called for secretarial work more than anything else, but 'twas decent money and sounded respectable at least. Michael, who was turned away four times before getting hired, was not so lucky. Brambian was located on the coast of the Weif Sea and boasted the largest port in the northern part of the kingdom. A lot of manpower was needed to maintain such a port and Michael was given multiple duties including pulling the ships in, cleaning them off, and keeping them secure while visiting dignitaries went about their business. 'Twas dirty work and the pay was crap, but at least they seemed unconcerned about the marks on his wrists.

They had learned early on that failing to mention the tattoos to the folks they rented rooms from was not in their best interest. It meant much slimmer pickings on living accommodations, but the truth always came out eventually and they were rarely allowed to collect their belongings from the rooms before being evicted.

In Brambian, the choices for an unredeemed man seemed to be cramped, but passably clean or cramped and crawling with roaches. They picked the former which was one room containing two small beds (the second was an added expense), one rickety table and a cramped, dingy kitchen area. Sadly, 'twas not even near their worst and at least they wouldn't be camping during the chilly winter months.

A couple weeks before the event, Fisk and Michael were sharing drinks after a strenuous shift at the docks and Michael may have had a few too many. Fisk made a comment about the coincidence of his birthday and the festival sharing a date. He was only observing, no suspicion in his voice, but Michael was loose-lipped and crap at keeping secrets anyway and spilled the whole story. He hadn't known what kind of reaction to expect, but the wide, astonished smile that graced Fisk's face was better than anything he could have come up with. Fisk spent the rest of the evening grinning fondly at him and Michael felt so warm and happy he thought he might burst.

Now he stared down at his drunken squire in amusement.

'I hope you realize I will be repeating every nice thing you say about me in the morning. You're going to be quite embarrassed. The list is getting rather long.'

'You're much too tall Mike. Come down here.'

Michael rolled his eyes at the nickname, which Fisk always seemed to let slip when he wasn't thinking, such as when he'd had a few beers, or was tired, or concentrating on something... actually, Michael realized, he did it all the damn time. Lying down on his side, Michael kicked Fisk's feet lightly.

'What exactly are we doing down here, may I ask?'

'Just enjoying the atmosphere.' Fisk frowned. 'And waiting for the world to stop tipping quite so much.'

'I assume that will occur in the morning, when the world will be busy making far too much noise.'

Fisk just grinned dopily at him which Michael took to mean he was too drunk to be worried about a hangover.

'So what did you get me?'

'Hmm?' Michael said.

'For my birthday you goon. What did you get me for my birthday?'

'You mean bringing you here wasn't enough?'

'Of course not. You didn't plan the festival, it was just convenient.'

'It bloody well was NOT convenient! I had to get us all the way over here without tipping you off. That was hard work!'

Snorting, Fisk rolled over to face him. 'So you're telling me you didn't get me a present then?'

'Well,' Michael relented. 'I may have something back in the room. I expect gratitude.'

Somehow he managed to lead Fisk back to their dwelling, although they had to pause a few times when Fisk got distracted by the fireworks that were still being let off. Eventually they tumbled into the tiny room, Fisk collapsing on Michael's bed with a loud 'Oomph'. Michael fetched the package he had bought the day before and hidden in one of his work boots. 'Twas unlikely Fisk had found it there, even if he had gone looking, because his squire maintained that Michael could kill a man with one whiff of his dirty socks.

Fisk seemed to have calmed down a bit after dunking his head in a water trough they passed outside the lodgings before heading upstairs. He had graciously removed his shoes before sprawling further on Michael's covers, and he lifted his feet now to allow Michael room to sit underneath them at the end of the bed.

'Here,' Michael said and handed him the package.

Grinning happily, Fisk ripped off the cheap paper wrapping to reveal the soft gloves inside.

'You were saying your hands got cold when you copied ledgers at the bank,' Michael said, when Fisk remained silent, fingering the gloves. 'I know you always say buying things meant for work is counterproductive, but I gave them to you and I'm going to be to be very offended if you don't wear them.'

Fisk looked up at him, smile turned soft and sweet. 'No, of course I will. Michael, they're perfect.'

Sure that his cheeks were a bright shade of pink, Michael cleared his throat loudly and announced, 'Time to sleep, I think. Stop lying all over my bed' and shoved at Fisk's legs. Fisk didn't budge.

When Michael looked over, Fisk had placed the gloves out of the way and was staring intently at him. His skin prickled and Michael had just opened his mouth to repeat his statement when Fisk scooted closer and slithered off the side of the bed until he was kneeling directly in front of him. Hands as hot as fire rested on his thighs and Michael had no idea what was going on. Then Fisk leaned forward and mouthed at the fabric of his breeches and, suddenly, he did.

Michael almost kneed the squire in the face when he jolted back, but Fisk just tightened the grip on his thighs and shuffled closer again.

'Fisk… what…'

Fisk hushed him and kissed the inside of his leg before moving his hands to the laces of Michael's pants. Michael's mind raced and he felt heavy, disoriented. Tipsy, he must still be tipsy, but Fisk was wasted, out of his mind, which meant Michael needed to be the one to stop this. He covered Fisk's hands with his own, stilling them, and said, 'You've had a lot to drink.'

Fisk didn't deny it. His gaze was dark and heated when he looked up at Michael through lidded eyes, and Michael had to reevaluate just how drunk he himself was because there was no way he had missed something as big as the obvious want displayed there now. Nothing was making sense and then Fisk was saying—

'Just… let me. Mike, please.'

—and Michael must have stepped into a different dimension because his Fisk didn't beg for things. Certainly not while he had his mouth pressed _right there_.

Apparently in this alternate universe where such things did occur, however, Michael didn't continue to protest and explain why they couldn't do this, they _could not do this_. He didn't push Fisk into his own bed and make him agree that they would never speak of this again. Instead, it seemed, he just swallowed thickly and loosened his grip on Fisk's hands.

Then there was heat and moisture and Michael didn't think about anything else for the rest of the night.

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They don't talk about it. Michael woke up to Fisk's snores from the other bed and had to rush to the outhouse because he was sure he was going to be ill. He didn't get sick, but he did bang his head against the wall until he was seeing stars because he was so. damn. stupid.

Michael didn't go back to the room until the evening, when he knew Fisk would be at the bank. He was relieved to see that the room showed no signs of anything being amiss. Spare clothes were still strung haphazardly about the floor and Michael's sword was propped against the foot of his bed. Staring at the scene, Michael took a deep breath and let it out. Okay. He could do this. Nothing had changed.

He made dinner and waited for Fisk's shift to end. Fisk showed no sign of wanting to speak about the previous evening and Michael felt eternally grateful. Conversation was mostly made by the squire, who told mundane details about his day behind a desk and exclaimed over his new gloves (apparently deciding it was best to act as if he was only receiving them now and the previous night hadn't occurred) when it became clear that Michael was too distracted to hold up his end. A few queer looks were thrown his way, but Michael shrugged off Fisk's nervous, 'Something wrong?' and headed out to the barn to brush Chant.

They could get past this. No problem.

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Three weeks later Michael was still repeating the same line in his head every time he looked at Fisk. To his utter mortification, it appeared that every time Fisk sat down next to him, or touched him, or even just opened his bloody mouth, Michael was transported right back to that night and the feel of said mouth on specific areas of Michael's body. He didn't have much in the way of comparison, but it had put the two previous experiences to shame and then some.

His first time was when his father brought him to a (respectable) whorehouse when he was thirteen. Sir Sevenson had done the same with each of his other sons. In fact, 'twas a common practice among upper class families to teach their sons about the mechanics of sex in such a way.

For Michael, 'twas downright mortifying.

The girl had realized how awkward he felt and offered to play cards instead while waiting for his father to return. They played four games of Crowns before she set the deck aside, pushed him onto the bed and went to work. 'Twas supremely embarrassing, especially when he had to wait around a bit for his father to return, and Michael felt dirty and used for days.

The other time was with Anne, the daughter of a visiting Lord. Their fathers were good friends and the family stayed on the Sevenson estate for the entire summer. Michael and Anne were near in age and interests. She told him that she often snuck swords out of her father's armory to practice and they spent many afternoons in the woods mock battling each other. One day, entirely out of the blue it seemed to Michael, she crawled over him while they rested after one such spar and said, 'There are other things we could practice together.'

Michael had resisted at first, because he was raised a true gentleman, but she laughed at his protests and told him plainly that she wanted to. It had been passably enjoyable, if a bit fumbling and awkward. He didn't tell Anne, but Michael would have preferred the sword fighting. He made himself believe 'twas only because he was already in love with Rosamund that Anne's body didn't excite him much.

Now, of course, he no longer had that excuse, not that it was needed in this case. Having Fisk's mouth move over him like that had been better than any fantasy Michael had ever had. Even the mere thought of it had him embarrassingly hot and Michael didn't quite know what to make of it.

Mayhap he just needed to erase the memory by creating a new one. Most boys his age had already been with multiple partners; some were even starting families. Whorehouses generally weren't Michael's style, but the massive effect this simple act was having on him was probably because he'd only had his hand to work with for years. The situation called for an exception.

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The whorehouse was located on a side street that was easy enough to find, but sufficiently secluded to offer privacy to clients. Michael almost chickened out as he was approaching, but an image of sandy hair caught tight between his fingers made him steel himself and head inside. Girls of every shape and size lounged around the brightly decorated interior. An older woman, plump but pretty, took his arm immediately and guided him to a silk covered table in a corner of the large room. She smiled, lipstick a stark contrast to her teeth, and said, 'How can I help you sugar?'

'I…uh…' Michael stammered, eyes flicking around the room but never connecting with anyone. His palms were sweating and he rubbed them on his pants nervously. 'That is, I was hoping to…'

Mercifully, the woman cut him off. 'Dearie, I know why you're here. I just need to find out what your type is and settle the bill before I send you in.'

Michael winced. This was a horrible idea. 'I don't think I can do this,' he whispered without meaning to, but she heard him all the same and waved aside the comment.

'Aint nobody here gonna judge you, honey. Now, I figure you for a blonde—'

'No!' blurted Michael. 'Uh, no, the darker the better. And experienced if you don't mind.'

'Sure thing sugar, Moira will be perfect I think,' she said, writing something on a small ledger. She named a price and Michael agreed blindly, having no idea what the regular going rate for such an activity was. Then the woman (whom Michael still didn't have a name for) gestured at a pretty dark-skinned girl –Moira, Michael presumed— who was stretching in a corner. 'The room on the left, Moira. You two have fun,' she said, winking.

Michael stared dumbly as Moira sauntered over and lifted his chin. 'My, my,' she said, voice throaty. 'You're a handsome one.'

'You are the beauty, miss,' stammered Michael, always a gentleman. 'Twas the truth. Almond eyes intensified by kohl, dark curly hair reaching her the middle of her back, and tight healthy skin, unmarred by scars. Her smile bordered on genuine as she led him through a door, down a hallway, and into a dimly lit room.

Moira wasn't shy and Michael struggled to keep up as she divested them of their clothing. 'What do you want?' she purred while running her hands over his bare chest. Michael shook his head at first, focused on training himself against bolting from the unfamiliar touch, before his brain caught up with her question. Immediately his mind conjured the scene of watching Fisk's mouth opening and sliding down, lips stretched wide and so, so red. Throat going dry, Michael whispered 'wait' and dragged a thumb over the girl's plump, tacky lips. Message apparently received, Moira went to her knees obediently and Michael let out a groan.

'Twas nice, he supposed. Her hair was silky against his palm and her mouth was hot and oh so talented. Much more talented than his idiot of a squire whom he was most emphatically not thinking about. At all. It felt off to see his hands traveling over such fine skin, dark and clean and unfreckled, but Michael was determined to enjoy it, to love the smooth soft curves of her body, to revel in the wicked tongue moving over him, to want and desire her more than any mistaken fumblings that might have happened before.

It would work. It _had _to.

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After, Michael got spectacularly drunk.

'Twas an awful plan, but Michael seemed to be full of those today and he'd hate to ruin his streak of idiocy by ignoring his current masochistic tendencies. A dingy bar called Scott's was located conveniently near to the whorehouse and Michael downed three shots of an unidentifiable liquid without batting an eye. The rest of the evening progressed in a similar fashion, until Michael found himself laid out flat on the dirty ground and blinking up at the dark night sky. He had no idea how he got there, but he didn't really care and he shut his eyes against the world in general, waiting patiently for everything to make sense again.

Lifetimes later, Michael heard a familiar voice yelling 'Michael, gods, are you insane?' and felt hands trying frantically to lift him up. Anger swept through him, sudden and uncontrollable, because it was just. not. fair.

'Ah, Fisk. Excellent,' said Michael crossly. 'I believe I had just gotten you off my mind and now you're ruining it.' He flipped over dramatically, flailing a hand out to wave Fisk away. 'Leave, would you?

A pause and then, 'You're plastered. Michael, what were you thinking?'

'I was _thinking_ that I would quite enjoy having a moment's peace without picturing your stupid mouth, you bastard,' spat Michael. 'And 'twas working quite splendidly until now. Much better than 'Moira' at least.'

'Moira? Who—you know what, never mind. C'mon Mike, we have to go.'

'Don't,' hissed Michael. 'Don't call me that.'

'Fine, whatever, _Noble sir_. Just get up.' The hands were redoubling their efforts to get him on his feet and Michael was too tired to resist. The ground lurched dangerously under him and he wrapped arms around the nearest object to steady himself.

'Oof, geez,' muttered Fisk from somewhere very close to his ear. The squire rearranged them so that Michael was leaning his weight on one side, arm slung tight over Fisk's shoulders. The walk home seemed to take eons, Michael stopping twice to expel what felt like the entire contents of the bar. The second time he just kept leaning his forehead against the stone wall he had dropped near, not yet willing to get up again.

Cool fingers swept the hair back from his face and rested on the nape of his neck. Michael wanted to pull away from the touch almost as much as he wanted to lean into it so he did nothing, just breathed and breathed, frustration mounting inside of him. A sob burst out of him before he could stop it, followed by another, and he punched the wall once, twice, three times before Fisk could get a good enough grip to stop him. Arms locked around his own, holding him in place, and Michael hung his head and curled his fists, drunk and exhausted and hating himself.

Fisk sounded terrified as he mumbled, 'Shh, shh, Michael, baby, it's gonna be okay,' into Michael's neck, but Michael couldn't concentrate past his own gasping sobs. Mud soaked into his trousers and a fine mist of rain started to fall. Still they sat, Michael trembling, nails digging into his palms, and Fisk murmuring frightened nonsense in his ears, until Michael quieted and drooped against him.

'Gods, Michael, Michael,' murmured Fisk, loosening his hold. 'What is wrong?'

A strangled laugh gusted out of him and Michael shook his head helplessly.

'I can help, I want to help,' babbled Fisk. 'Just… let me.'

Michael froze and he was right back in their little room staring at an imploring Fisk who was saying 'just let me' and 'please' and Michael was losing his mind and giving in and fucking everything up. And now Fisk was doing it again. Making it seem so easy, so right to simply agree and allow him anything he wanted with no thought of the consequences.

Michael hated him.

Fisk ended up flat on the ground when Michael shoved him. He stood up and glared down at his squire, dizzy and angry and upset about everything. His mind was a jumble of thoughts, each more horrible than the last. A part of him knew, _knew_ he shouldn't say anything. Should just walk away, cool down, sober up, but—

'Just let you? Just _let you_? We both know what happened last time I 'just let you'.'

Fisk was staring at him in shock. 'Michael, what-'

'Why are you here Fisk?'

'I don't understand—'

'Why are you here?' Michael shouted, not caring if he was being unfair.

Fisk got off the ground slowly holding his hands out, to steady himself or in defense, Michael didn't know. 'Jake Hullan. Your coworker? He was in the bar with you.' Odd. Michael didn't remember Jake being there. 'He-he came to the bank, told me you were in a state and the bartender was getting ready to kick you out.'

'I'm not a child who has to be looked after you know. I don't need you,' hissed Michael and felt an ugly curl of satisfaction at the flash of pain on his squire's face.

'I know that,' Fisk said softly. 'I just wanted to make sure you were alright.'

'I'm fine,' he bit out, feeling just the opposite.

The scared, unhappy look Fisk had been wearing was replaced momentarily with disbelief. 'Yes, I can see that,' he responded darkly.

'Well, if I'm not 'tis your fault!'

'My fault?' Fisk was getting angry now too as he glared at Michael and Michael's body thrummed with anticipation. He wanted a fight. He wanted a reason to vent his frustration on the person who had him so messed up in the first place. 'How is it my fault that you're so drunk you can barely see straight because you seem to have spent the entire day attempting to win a new record for alcohol intake!'

Michael grinned viciously, knowing he could cut deeper. 'Oh, I didn't spend all day in the bar. Moira kept me company before that.'

'Who is Moira?'

'She's employed at Madame Hannah's House. 'Twas a lovely afternoon I spent there.' That was a lie, but he didn't care to let Fisk know, just reveled in the shocked look on his face.

'Hannah as in – as in Hannah's Whores?' Fisk stuttered, gaping at him. 'Michael, you… Why?'

'Because I don't need you to satisfy those needs _squire_. I'm quite capable of taking care of it without you and your stupid bloody lips.' There was a burst of air and Fisk stumbled looking as though someone had punched him. Irritation bubbled in Michael. How dare he have the right to seem surprised? 'What, did you think I had forgotten? Conveniently overlooked the entire night? Believe me, I've tried.'

The fight had drained from Fisk and the man stood staring at him, dumbfounded. Michael wasn't done though, and he continued, embracing the manic glee he was receiving from watching Fisk flinch at his words, 'You know, I've never met someone so enthusiastic; even Moira couldn't quite obtain that level of delight from the task.' Fisk licked his lips nervously and his eyes flickered down to just below Michael's stomach, obviously against his will. Michael was filled with triumph and a sick fascination at the sight. 'Gods, Fisk. You want it so fucking bad, don't you?'

Fisk jerked back a step and Michael compensated without thought, rushing forward and crowding him against the alley wall. 'I tried to figure out what drove you to do it,' he spoke. 'You were drunk, sure, and you always get… _touchier _when you're drunk.' Fisk's ragged breath was hot against his chin and he couldn't get enough of the wide-eyed, frightened look on his squire's face. 'But I had no idea. No _idea._You must have been imagining it for years. Am I correct?'

'M-Michael,' stuttered Fisk. 'I didn't – oh _gods Mike._' Michael stared in wonder and disgust at the horror dawning on Fisk's face as the man shuddered under his hands. 'I didn't know,' he finished in a whisper.

Anger spiked in Michael's gut and he tightened his grip, saying flatly, 'You didn't know.'

Fisk's voice was stuttering and disjointed, as though he was working things out as he spoke. 'I don't, I don't usually drink that much. Alcohol's not – that is, I don't have much of a head for it, you know, and I was sneaking drinks while you weren't looking that night because I – you were driving me crazy – I just needed… shit. Shit!' He swore and paused his babbling, tilting his head down from where he had been staring at the sky so that their eyes met. 'Michael, I barely remember anything after the play at the festival. I woke up in the morning and I wondered, maybe if – you were acting so strange, distant, and you would barely look at me anymore, but I never imagined… I thought I might ha-have said something, I didn't realize I – oh gods. I'm sorry, I'm sorry.'

'All this time and you didn't even know.' Michael felt furious, cheated. This was all Fisk's fault, all these messed up emotions were because of that one stupid act and Fisk had been living in the luxury of _not even knowing._ His head spun, alcohol and rage flooding his veins, and he barely even registered raising his fist. When it connected with his squire's face, however, he felt everything; the crunch of bone hitting bone, the slick feel of blood on his knuckles as he opened Fisk's lip, and the burst of satisfaction at the astonished, confused look that the squire gave him. It felt good, so fucking good, that he did it again.

Fisk put up an arm in defense this time, saying 'Michael, what the hell – ' and Michael pushed hard enough to make him stumble and followed him to the ground, not letting up, until Fisk was fighting back just as hard.

'What is wrong with you!' shouted Fisk while he had the upper hand, using his weight to momentarily hold Michael down. 'I'm sorry I did it, I was drunk, and I shouldn't have. I won't do it again if that's what we're fighting over; you've made it very clear how much you want to forget!'

Working an arm free really wasn't that difficult and Michael swung at him again, landing on an eye and using the distraction to flip their positions. How could Fisk not see the problem, not see how wrong everything was? 'It isn't just about forgetting!' he said, fervently. 'It never should have happened at all, I never should have let it happen because I'm not – I _can't _be – '

Michael came to a halt, staring at Fisk struggling under him, but he had a good grip and the advantage of size on his side. This wasn't something he talked about, ever, but Michael wasn't in a normal state, hadn't been for weeks, and the man beneath him was looking confused and devastated. His next words were spoken as clearly as possible, even though he still felt fuzzy and disconnected, because Fisk needed to _understand._

'I had a cousin named Martin once,' he began, words spilling forth uncontrollably. 'He was quite a bit older than me and was set to inherit his father's lands. He was the perfect son in every way, save for one: the prettiest maid in the land wouldn't have been able to turn his head because Martin only had eyes for Tristan, a boy from the nearest village.'

Fisk stopped moving then, though he stayed tense and guarded as he watched Michael talk. 'When it came out, his father had him disowned, flogged and banished him from the estate and the neighboring villages. Tristan was hung,' Fisk flinched, 'for 'manipulating an esteemed citizen with evil intent' or however the judicars phrased it to help them sleep at night. He was nineteen.'

'Martin came to my father looking for help, hoping he could convince him to talk with his brother about the banishment.' Michael could still remember the dirty mess of a man being hauled inside by the guards. Gods, he had seemed so young and terrified. 'Father kicked him out, but not before he said some vicious things about the value of 'sodomites' in the kingdom. Two months later I overheard he and Mother talking; Martin had killed himself.'

Fisk was frozen beneath him, fingers clenched tight on Michael's thighs. Vaguely, Michael realized he had loosened his hold on the squire and was now just brushing his thumbs lightly against the cloth covering Fisk's arms.

'My father,' he laughed humorlessly, 'was _pleased_. It has never been a secret in country society about the tolerance for deviant behavior. I was under the impression the same was generally true for cities as well.'

Fisk was silent a moment longer, before he said, 'Yes. It is,' in a voice low and hoarse.

'Then why would you do this?' hissed Michael, more tired than angry now.

'Not accepting it doesn't make it not exist,' said Fisk quietly. 'I can't help the way I am.'

Michael didn't answer and Fisk sighed.

'I'm sorry I dragged you into it. I – I've been very good about controlling myself up until now and you've obviously got enough to deal with without giving society another reason to shun you.' The squire looked away and added softly, 'It was a moment of weakness, nothing more.'

Michael wanted to ask what that meant, wanted to squeeze every last ounce of truth from the boy, open him up and determine just what drove him, but his stomach rolled from the earlier activities of the night and he had to scramble off of Fisk quickly before heaving up more alcohol. After he was spent once again, Michael collapsed on his side, holding his stomach and moaning. The night air ran over him, cooling his cheek and ear and making him shiver slightly as he lay on the ground, unwilling to move.

Several minutes passed, mayhap an eternity as far as Michael was paying attention, before Fisk hauled him to his feet and dragged him the rest of the way to their room in silence. He managed to remove Michael's boots and get the knight into bed without any further mishaps. Michael went quietly, tired and sick and disorientated as he was, right up until Fisk was lifting the covers to his chin. Fisk started when Michael wrapped a hand around his wrist.

'Why me?' he whispered and would have hated the desperate way it sounded had he been conscious enough to notice.

A moment passed in which Fisk just looked at him, wearing an infinitely sad expression. Dried blood stained his lips and chin and Michael thought, vaguely, _I did that._Then Fisk brushed some hair back from the knight's forehead gently and there was no mistaking the longing in his voice as he said, 'It could only be you Michael.'

The statement was still ringing in his ears when Fisk murmured, 'Sleep,' and left the room.

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The morning dawned cold and grey. Michael woke up huddled under his covers, body aching, head pounding, and mouth tasting like the backside of a boar. The night returned to him slowly, a new piece surfacing each minute he spent staring up at the ceiling. He tried to remember a time he had woken up loathing himself as much as he did now and failed.

Dragging his unwilling body out of bed to clean was a chore in itself. Surprise swept through him when he noticed the pan of clean water sitting at the foot of his bed and Michael felt his stomach clench in guilt. Even after treating him awful for weeks and using him as an outlet for his anger last night, his squire was still looking after him.

Darting his eyes to the other bed in the room, Michael discovered it empty. In fact, the bed didn't seem to have been slept in at all.

It felt like Michael's head was clear for the first time since Fisk's birthday. He knew he had messed up and badly. The question was could he still fix it? Fisk had stuck by him these past weeks while he treated him as lower than dirt, but last night had been a boiling point. There was no knowing just what would happen now and Michael suddenly felt frantic with the need to get his hands on Fisk and _not let him leave. _Finished washing up and looking mildly presentable, Michael stepped outside and began walking.

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	2. Chapter 2

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Two hours passed before Michael found Fisk. His first stop was to the bank where his squire was employed, hoping that the man would be in his small office looking over accounts. Unfortunately, the tellers on duty informed him that Fisk wasn't scheduled to work and, in fact, his position was being evaluated after he had walked out early the night before. _Gods_, Michael thought. _Another thing he needed to apologize for._ He wandered around town after that, checking the regular haunts that he and Fisk had frequented when they were first settling into Brambian. None of the tavern maids or barkeeps he first spoke to remembered seeing Fisk that day and Michael was beginning to think he might just have to wait at home until Fisk decided to return when finally he got lucky.

Although barkeeps at the first two taverns hadn't seen Fisk recently, the third proved more helpful. 'Twas a less respectable joint, open all hours of the day, and the man pouring beer smelled as though he hadn't seen clean water in a week. At least he was polite.

'Your friend has been in here quite often lately. Usually keeps to himself, just nursing a few cold ones and staying quiet,' said the barkeep, who was also the owner. ''Cept last night he was in some kind of state. Came stalking in, bruised and bloodied, and immediately tried to pick a fight with a couple regulars. They shoved each other around a bit, but the other guys were more lazy with alcohol than angry and they took off before any real damage could be done.'

Michael breathed a sigh of relief. Who knows what could have happened if Fisk had managed to irritate some men a bit more interested in causing pain.

'After that he just sat in the back all night, only ordering one drink, most of which he didn't finish, and glaring a hole into my table. He only left… oh, I'd say 'bout an hour ago when a kid came in hollering about some drunken girl causing trouble again.'

Thanking the man profusely, Michael rushed out of the bar in the direction of the stables. He thought he might know where his squire had gone.

.

'Hey.'

Fisk looked up from brushing Tipple when Michael walked into the barn and Michael flinched. Fisk was roughed up, sporting a black eye and a cut lip. 'Hi,' he replied, hesitantly. Michael tried for a tentative smile. It may have felt rusty, but Fisk's stiff posture eased and he went back to his ministrations.

They stood in silence for a while. Michael fought with what to say and ended up just watching his squire's hands, hypnotized by the steady movement. When he finished, Fisk patted Tipple and leaned against the stall, saying, 'How's the hangover?'

'Better, now,' said Michael softly. 'Thank you. For the water, for picking me up. For… everything.'

'You don't have to – '

'Yes, I do,' laughed Michael, humorlessly. 'I have a lot of apologizing to do. I was an utter bastard, Fisk.'

Fisk's lips twitched, but he didn't argue.

'I've been confused and angry with myself and I was taking it out on you. When I wasn't ignoring you, I was yelling at you or throwing a fist. Gods, I bought a_prostitute_.'

'Yeah, that one caught me off guard.'

'I'm just… I don't know what I would do without you,' he revealed, helplessly. 'I've been acting like an idiot child, but I'm done and I will do whatever it takes to make it up to you.'

Smiling slightly, Fisk moved to where Michael was standing. 'Groveling is not a good look on you,' he mocked gently.

''Tis not a good look for anyone. That's the point.'

Fisk must have heard the insecurity in his voice because he said seriously, 'I'm not going to leave you, Michael. You know that right?'

Michael exhaled deeply. 'I wouldn't have blamed you.'

'Stupid knight,' teased Fisk. 'Although I do appreciate the apology. I don't let just anyone beat me up, you know.'

He brought a hand up to Fisk's black eye, brushing lightly. 'Does it hurt?'

'Eh. It was a crap punch anyway.'

Michael let the jab slide, feeling relieved, elated. 'Twas as if he had been walking in a haze the past few weeks and now he was finally breathing fresh air. He grinned at his squire. 'How about stew tonight? I can cook in those ridiculous peppers you like so much, as the beginning of my repentance.'

'Oh, this should be fun. Does your atonement cover the washing and mending and shopping too?'

'Don't even pretend you don't love sewing our clothes up, squire,' replied Michael as they exited the barn.

.

Dinner was fantastic and Michael refused to let Fisk help while he cleaned the bowls. They joked as he worked and he realized just how much he had _missed_Fisk. They hadn't had a proper conversation in ages.

'And then Georgia Winefeld waltzes in and claims her husband's entire estate! The man wasn't even cold on his deathbed yet.'

Michael snorted as Fisk recounted the escapade that happened at the bank four days past. 'She's a piece of work.'

'You have no idea,' answered Fisk. 'Listen. I, uh…' He broke off, looking anxious, then said, 'I'm sorry about your cousin. Martin.'

Michael remembered Fisk's shocked face the night before as he spilled the story and realized he was glad that Fisk knew. 'I am too.'

Fisk was fidgeting and Michael thought he must have still had something he wanted to say, but in the end the squire just let out a gust of air saying, 'Put out the lantern, would you?' and crawled into bed.

.

To Michael's immense relief, things continued to turn around. Fisk didn't lose his job, Michael swore off alcohol until the next Hornday at least and their relationship continued to repair as Michael made amends at every opportunity.

Most of the time Fisk was the same as ever, grumpy in the mornings, exasperated when Michael got himself in trouble through a noble deed, funny and friendly and constant always. But there were times when Michael would notice Fisk holding himself back, his smile going tight and forced. He wanted to ask, wanted to push past the barriers that were suddenly between them, but didn't feel he had the right when he was the entire reason for their presence.

They avoided bars for the most part during the first couple weeks , opting instead to cook and play cards in the room or spend time exercising the horses and finding good areas to hunt and fish. Eventually Jake Hullan asked them out for drinks after a grueling shift at the docks and Michael accepted, deciding it was probably time to start socializing with the world at large again.

Jake walked with Michael to fetch Fisk from his bank shift and Michael made sure to apologize for his actions the night that Fisk collected him from Scott's. 'I'd probably be face down in a ditch somewhere if you hadn't alerted someone.'

'You'd do the same for me, I reckon,' Jake said, amiably. 'Everybody has their off days.'

''Twas a lucky thing that you managed to find my squire.'

Jake shrugged. 'Not so lucky. Fisk and I have chatted before. We actually had some lunch together that afternoon before he headed to work and I saw you at the bar.' He scratched the stubble on his chin. 'Haven't seen him lately though.'

Michael blinked. It hadn't occurred to him that Fisk might have sought other company while Michael had been avoiding him. 'Twas strange to imagine his squire having a life outside of his knowledge and Michael felt oddly uneasy, though he knew the emotion was misplaced. Of course Fisk would have other friends; there was nothing wrong with that. And lunch, that was normal. He was being ridiculous.

Fisk was pleased to see them. He finished a form and left his desk immediately, pocketing his gloves as he went. As they headed to the bar, Michael and Fisk somehow ended up arguing over which was the worse crime: overpriced beef or overpriced steel. They were having a fine time of it, making up outlandish repercussions for overpaying on such items and feigning astonishment every time a new point was made until Jake stopped laughing long enough to side with Fisk and Michael had to admit defeat.

The tavern was packed full of other folk looking to wind down after a hard day's work, but the three of them managed to find some seats with a few other dock workers. They were greeted warmly, though Michael saw a few surprised looks shot in Fisk's direction. It puzzled him for a moment before he remembered that these were some of the men he had spent his time with when he'd been avoiding his squire. At first they had questioned why Michael was suddenly showing up without his 'trusty sidekick' but he had driven off their inquiries with a few sullen glares. No wonder they seemed taken aback by Fisk's presence now.

Unfortunately, they were men who were more bold than smart. Several beers later and Peter Flank, a burly sailor with half a nose, waved a beer-laden hand at the two of them and said, 'Oy. You two lovebirds made up then?'

It was only a jab of course. Actual accusations were taken seriously and brought to the proper authority. Alluding to it in a teasing manner was only considered an insult. Even so, the remark hit too close to home. Fisk, who had been trying to show Michael how to make a tone by running a finger around the rim of his mug, now stiffened and shifted away awkwardly.

Jake seemed to notice the sudden tension and moved to break it. 'Fisk probably just got tired of looking at Michael's sorry mug every day. And who could blame him?' He slapped Michael on the back while the men roared.

'Yeah, how do you put up with this pillock?' added another dock hand, though not unkindly.

'I'll bet Fisk here has a few unpleasant attributes himself,' said Peter. 'What is it Michael? Smelly feet? Bad table manners? Sleeps in the nude?'

'No, no,' Michael said over the din, looking intently at his squire. 'Fisk is… Fisk is an angel.' Guffaws were heard around the table as the others took the statement for sarcasm, but the words had come out soft, sincere. A flush of red rose in Fisk's skin, starting at his neck and leading up to his ears. Tracking the color, Michael realized that Fisk had his eyes locked on him, looking strangely upset.

'I need some air,' Fisk announced, standing abruptly and swaying slightly as he headed towards the door.

As far as Michael knew, Fisk hadn't been drunk since his birthday and his squire was still a lightweight when it came to holding his alcohol. It didn't take much to make him tipsy. Concerned, the knight excused himself and followed Fisk out of the tavern. He found the man slumped against the pub wall, away from the lights and windows of the building.

When Fisk caught sight of him, he said, 'Go back inside Michael.'

Michael stepped closer instead and was rewarded with a twitch from Fisk. 'Go back inside,' he repeated, harsher this time.

Ignoring him, Michael said, 'What's wrong?'

'I need a minute to compose myself, _Mike_.'

There it was. That note of unhappy acceptance, of frustration and anger that Fisk usually managed to hide. Ordinarily when Michael heard it, he backed off and gave Fisk his space, but he was getting tired of having Fisk close him off.

'Fisk…' he started, only to have Fisk cut him off immediately.

'Damn it, Michael, what do you want from me? I'm trying, I really am, but sometimes you look at me like…' He curled his hands into fists and visibly forced himself to take a couple calm, even breaths before saying clearly, 'I know that you don't want me, but when you call me an angel like that, you can't expect me not to be affected, okay? So I just… I just need a moment.' Fisk looked up at him. 'Okay?'

Nodding dumbly, Michael did as he was told and tried to ignore the painful lurch in his stomach at the desperately wistful expression on Fisk's face while he turned away.

.

Fortunately or not, Michael now felt hyper-attuned to Fisk's every reaction.

It became abundantly clear that Fisk hadn't been exaggerating when he told Michael the birthday incident had been only a 'moment of weakness'. Now that Michael knew what to look for, knew that there even was something to look for, he could see Fisk's feelings evident in everything they did. 'Twas also obvious the man took special care to never act on them. He kept things platonic and comfortable, never making Michael feel pressured.

'Twas disquieting to wonder just how much the holding back was costing his squire.

And things would be alright, really, if only Michael could stop feeling disappointed every time Fisk checked himself from becoming too friendly. Or, worse, jealous whenever Fisk spent time with someone other than himself.

Frustration mounting, it came to a head one afternoon while Michael was attempting to clean a particularly stubborn bit of grime off one of the docked boats. He looked up to see a familiar sandy-haired man approaching the pier with a basket that Michael assumed held food. Thinking that Fisk was heading his way, Michael doubled his efforts in hopes to get the boat clear so that he could break for lunch. When he looked up again, it was to find Fisk talking merrily with Jake and Bob Yates several piers over.

He knew, _he knew,_ feeling upset was ridiculous. Likely Fisk would be over to say hello in mere minutes, but Michael couldn't get rid of the cheated, betrayed feeling in his stomach at the sight of Jake's hand on his squire's arm and he slunk out of sight to get a handle on himself. Fisk asked around for him after a while, but he stayed hidden until the man gave up, sure that Fisk would see right through him if they spoke.

Not feeling any better after his shift, Michael stopped by a pub on the way home to settle himself. 'Twas only meant to be a couple mugs, but some of the other dock workers showed up, Jake included, and Michael had to down a few more to keep from sneering childishly at the man and his stupid red curls.

When he finally left the bar and stumbled into his the room, Fisk looked up from a book and immediately burst out laughing.

'Trying out a new hair style Sir Knight? Let me be the first to say that it really is an _exquisite_fashion. Sure to be a hit with the ladies.'

'There was an incident involving my head, a pint of lager, and a particularly sticky bartop,' he replied primly.

Fisk stopped sniggering long enough to offer helping him cut off the worst of the damage and Michael accepted, too dizzy to accomplish the task himself. They dunked his head in a bucket of water and Fisk sharpened his pocket knife before working out the tough clumps of whatever had been on the bar and was now taking over his hair.

Feeling drunk and out of it, Michael, without giving any thought to the words, said, 'You remember that night after the festival?'

Fisk's hands stopped moving.

'I really did like that.'

'Is that so?' Fisk said cautiously.

'Yeah. Loved it actually. I didn't want you to know.'

'…but you're telling me now.'

'Well its different now, isn't it? Now I know how you feel and I know think I know how I feel and the only thing I can't figure out is how to make it come together.'

'Make what come together Michael?'

'You and me of course,' he said lolling his head back against the squire's stomach. 'Before you reclaim your senses and move on to someone else.'

'That's ridic—Michael. What about the law? I'm still a guy. This is still considered abhorrent.'

Michael let his eyes droop. 'The law isn't always right,' he yawned. 'Sometimes you just have to go with your gut.'

If there was more conversation after that, Michael didn't remember it. He woke up the next morning with a resounding headache and spent a few minutes feeling generally sorry for himself and wishing he didn't remember anything. Then he shook the thoughts away and started the grueling process of preparing for work while simultaneously trying to block out all noise in the world and his squire's assessing gaze.

Whether he was as embarrassed as Michael by the things said or he simply didn't believe Michael's drunken declarations, Fisk said nothing of the entire evening. Spinelessly, Michael allowed it to be ignored. Obviously he wasn't ready for anything to happen if he couldn't even own up to wanting Fisk without being several pints under.

Life went on.

.

A while later found Michael knotting up his boots and saying, 'I'll be at the docks until late today. Lord Panfrey is sure that every thief and scoundrel is out to rob his shiny ship and paid for round the clock personal guards.'

'He still think it was gypsies that stole away with his 'prized golden peacocks'?

'Oh yes. For a man so paranoid, he really doesn't like anyone accusing his crew of robbery, even if 'tis clearly true. What have you got planned today?'

Yawning and picking at his eggs, Fisk shrugged. 'Feed the horses, check out that new contraption that's claimed to trap a copy of you on a sheet of paper. Jake said he'd stop by.'

'Oh,' Michael said, feeling suddenly grumpy. 'Have fun.'

'Try not to get in any trouble, Sir Knight,' Fisk responded and turned back to his breakfast.

.

'Twas raining and dark when Michael finally made it back to the room. He bust in dripping wet and exhausted, entertaining the idea of simply falling into his bed without bothering to eat or change. Instead he was greeted with the sight of Fisk and Jake leaning against one another as they roared with laughter.

'Michael!' Fisk shouted happily at the bang of the door. 'You're back!'

'Hullo, Michael,' chimed Jake.

Michael nodded stiffly at the man, sounding a bit colder than he intended when he replied, 'Jake.'

Climbing off his bed, Fisk said, 'Well? Did a band of highly training ninjas descend on Panfrey's boat and make off with all his treasures?'

'There was one incident with a particularly ornery old man trying to get a closer look, but I managed to fight him off.'

'How heroic.'

'I am a knight, you know.'

Fisk grinned. 'Well, Sir Knight, would you like some leftover chili? Jake's almost as good a cook as you.'

The sudden image of Fisk and Jake cooking together, all cozy and alone in the room made Michael uneasy. He sat down with a bowl anyway, the chili helping to heat his frozen body.

Stretching, Jake stood up and said, 'I believe I've trespassed on your hospitality long enough for one night. Suppose I'll head out.'

''Tis treacherous,' warned Michael. 'Rain's coming down pretty hard and the roads are a mess. They closed off Trefl Bridge as a safety hazard.'

Concern swept across Fisk's face. 'Isn't that where you cross to get home?'

'I can try the Mory Bridge further down, though if it's closed too…'

'Nonsense. We're not going to have you drown after you cooked us such good food,' declared Fisk. 'You can sleep here tonight.'

Michael may have been feeling shamefully ungracious towards the dock worker, but even he could see the wisdom in that. Being out in a storm was risky in regular circumstances. Trying to cross a flooded river in the dead of night during one was asking for trouble.

Even so, Jake looked concerned. 'I wouldn't want to intrude. Perhaps they'll let me sleep in the barn?'

''Tis fine,' assured Michael quickly, suddenly absurdly anxious that Fisk would offer to share his mattress with the man. 'You can have my bed and I'll… take the floor. We have an extra blanket.'

'I'm not putting you out of your bed! I have no problem with sleeping on the ground.'

'No. 'Tis not up for negotiation.'

He heard Fisk sigh. 'You better just accept the bed, Jake. Michael is as stubborn as a mule. He'll likely sleep on the floor whether you do or not.'

Jake laughed and raised his hands in defeat. 'Alright, I can see when I'm beat. I appreciate it, Michael.'

.

Michael was coughing slightly while they settled into their respective sleeping areas and Fisk eyed him concernedly, but Michael ignored the look and shifted on the pile of their clothes he was using as a mattress in a vain attempt to get comfortable.

Sleep was evasive that evening. He'd spent enough time camping on the rugged ground that he should have been able to get some shut-eye regardless of his lack of bed, but the walk home in the rain didn't do him any favors. Trying to muffle his coughs, Michael lay shivering and half-awake until he felt a hand on his shoulder.

'Michael,' whispered Fisk. 'Come on.'

'Hmm?'

'Get up, you're freezing.'

Blearily, Michael rose and allowed himself to be led to Fisk's bed.

'Fisk, I'm not taking—' He broke off into a cough.

'Shut up,' Fisk said softly and pushed him under the covers. Michael was going to continue to protest, but a moment later Fisk slid in behind him, curling flush against his back in the limited space. Thoughts derailing, he blinked at the wall and continued to tremble though he felt much warmer already.

Fisk wrapped an arm around him, shifting closer, and mumbled sleepily, 'We can argue about it in the morning, okay? Sleep.'

The hand on his torso was calloused and familiar, but seemed almost foreign when viewed in such a perspective. Michael felt a clench in his chest again and realized he had no desire to fight this at all. When they woke up in the morning, Fisk would no doubt explain how he was only trying to keep Michael warm. He would do this because he was likely still under the impression (drunken confessions notwithstanding) that Michael might assume the position was another come-on or something equally as incorrect, but no less warranted. _Gods_, how he wished he could go back in time and slap his former self.

But Michael could no longer delude himself into believing that Fisk was alone in his desires. The knight had been terrified and disgusted with himself in the beginning, but even then he couldn't deny just how much he fucking loved what Fisk did to him. And now he knew, without a doubt, 'twas more than just sexual. He wanted the feeling he had now, the one he got from Fisk being curled up behind him, soft breath on his neck and warm arm on his skin, and he wanted it all the time.

He wanted it and damn the consequences. Damn the world.

He was in so deep.

.

Nothing was said over the next few days. Michael's cold cleared up after a while, Jake stopped by a couple times to visit with news from the docks, Fisk went to work and came home, chattered about the new courthouse being built and Lady Winefeld's latest stunt.

Nothing had changed. Fisk was still his best friend and a man, homosexuality was still outlawed, and Michael had still acted like a fool for three weeks because of it. Nothing was different now.

…_except him._

Because even knowing all those things, Michael still wanted to put his hands on Fisk, wanted to grab him and never let go, wanted _everything_.

And suddenly, enough was enough. Fisk came home one evening saying, 'Jake and some others want to meet us for drinks. Interested?' and Michael stared at his freckled face, flush from the cool air, his floppy hair, his fine, slim fingers and simply said, 'No.'

Fisk blinked, confused. 'No?'

Shaking his head, Michael advanced towards the man. Putting his hand where Fisk was still holding the doorknob, he pushed slowly until it shut, never once breaking eye contact. Face flushed from more than cold now, Fisk swallowed visibly when Michael's other hand touched his cheek.

'No, I don't want to go out.'

Silence, and then, strained, 'What _do_ you want?'

Michael kissed him.

He hadn't meant to do more than press his lips down once, softly, but Fisk surged against him instantly, opening his mouth and kissing back hard.

When they pulled back at last, Fisk was clutching at him, wide-eyed and painfully unsure. Michael tried to step back, give the man space, but Fisk tightened his grip and said in a strangled rush, 'You have to be sure, Michael. I can't take it if- if this is some—'

'It isn't. Fisk, it isn't.'

'Because I'm gone for you,' he persisted, not a trace of uncertainty in his voice now. 'This isn't something I can do halfway.'

'Wasn't planning on it. I was afraid. Now I'm not.'

Fisk continued to look hesitant so Michael whispered, 'You can still say no.'

One tense, unbearable second later Fisk finally breathed, 'No, I can't,' and hauled him back in. Michael let him.

.

[end]

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Review if you like! Let me know if anyone is actually interested in more adult stories like this. (That way if I ever write another, I'll know to keep it to myself) X]

Feel free to skip this next part. I just have this need to explain my stories.

For this one in particular, I've made it so being gay is viewed as a dire crime with sometimes deadly consequences because I needed to somewhat justify Michael acting the way he does and because I like it when two characters have to contend with more opposition than just wondering if they each lurve one another. I also made it so Michael and Fisk are no strangers to knocking back a few when they have the coin, Michael's unredeemedness is all but ignored, and losing one's virginity to a prostitute is a particularly lordly and upper-class thing to do. Ah, the joys of being a fanfiction author.

Fact: Jake, the little bastard, was only supposed to be this faceless dude that Fisk mentions as the reason he knew where to find Michael when he was booted from Scott's bar, but then he was all 'you should use me to show that Fisk isn't completely helpless and alone without Michael' so I did that and then he was all 'you should make me a plot point to show Michael's growing realization of how he feels about Fisk' so I did that, too, and then he was all 'you should actually make Fisk and I get it on to REALLY piss off Michael' and I told him stuff it.

Fact: The original plot (you know, until my traitorous hands decided to start typing something different) was 'Fisk gives Michael several drunken blow jobs and they don't talk about it in between until they do' but then it somehow turned into this.

The next story I have that's closest to being done will be much lighter. Pancakes and daisies in comparison to the angst in this one.

Thank you for all the lovely reviews on Infrastructure!


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